


Real Brides Don't Wear Wedding Armor

by CatgirlTheCrazy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Assassination, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Silly, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatgirlTheCrazy/pseuds/CatgirlTheCrazy
Summary: Alianne Cousland had survived a lot of strange shit the last two years. Wedding dresses, however, might just defeat her.





	

Alianne Cousland had survived a lot of strange shit in the last couple years, far more than most people had any right to in one lifetime. She’d joined the Wardens, and survived. She’d battled darkspawn, spiders, abominations, werewolves, bears, broodmothers, golems, and Maker only knew what else. She’d been trapped in the Fade, a non-mage, and escaped. She’d ventured to the Deep Roads’ nethermost depths and returned with a Paragon’s crown. Then she’d journeyed in the stuff of fables to retrieve a sacred relic to save a dying man— and succeeded. Oh, and she slew an archdemon and lived. That was probably worth mentioning too.

Aly would like to say that none of it had scared her, but she’d be a damn liar if she did. Still, the burning need to brown her own pants hadn’t stopped her from twirling a dagger, tossing a clever quip, and throwing herself at the next threat of death and dismemberment if it meant saving others.

Wedding dresses, however, might defeat her.

Aly stared at her reflection the mirror, mouth pursed tight. Her very white, very glittery, very _poofy_ reflection stared back at her. A silky white bodice that valiantly tried and utterly failed to add curves to Aly’s beanpole figure. A poofy skirt that poofed out so aggressively that Aly thought even if she tripped on the hem she’d simply roll back upright from the sheer weight of it. And the whole thing was encrusted with so many diamonds that even Shale probably would have called them “slightly excessive.” All in all, it gave the impression of a glittery toothpick sticking out of a marshmallow.

Eventually, Aly’s brain emerged from the ice scape of horror to which it had retreated long enough to form a coherent sound.

“No.”

Mother Bronwyn raised an eyebrow. “I'm sorry?”

Aly glared at her. “I said, _no._ No way in the Black City am I going to wear this—” She waved her arms emphatically, causing the servants currently pinning and hemming the dress into place to duck— “This _thing._ Andraste’s tits, I'm the Warden-Commander, not a cake decoration.”

Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed. “I knew Teryna Eleanor quite well, my lady, and I know she did not teach her daughter to use such language.”

Aly glared back. “Andraste’s dank, yeasty—" She enunciated each word like a carefully aimed arrow.

“ _In any case,_ ” Mother Bronwyn bouldered over Aly’s cursing, “You are marrying a king, meaning you will become queen. On your wedding day, that will be the title of highest precedence, and therefore you must wear a dress appropriate to your new rank.”

Aly decided to change tacks. “And if we're attacked by assassins? I can't move for shit in this froofy monstrosity, and silk doesn't do jack against knives or arrows.”

Bronwyn sniffed. “I hardly think that is likely.”

“Queen Moira had assassins out her arse when she got married,” Aly argued, naming King Maric’s mother and Alistair's grandmother.

“The Rebel Queen was married in a tent in the Southron Hills, while being actively hunted by Orlesian troops. You are getting married in the most fortified city in Ferelden. The situations are hardly comparable. Now enough of this. You will wear the dress and we will argue no more on this matter.” Not giving Aly a chance to interject, Bronwyn turned on her heel and walked out.

Aly stood there in fuming silence as the servants finished pinning. She felt twelve again. Her mother had tried on more than occasion to subject her to dresses. Every time, Aly had fought, wheedled, tantrumed, and in general made her mother’s life a misery every time she tried to stuff Aly into one. The few times Eleanor Cousland had won, Aly made it her mission to ruin the dress as quickly and thoroughly as possible: jumping in mud puddles, “accidentally” dribbling food and drink, or just cuddling Ser Rufus and letting the slobber and dog hair do its work.

Even now, Aly was tempted to storm out of the room and toss the horrible thing into the fire. But Bronwyn would just take it out on the servants for not finishing the alterations, and the money for a new dress would be money they couldn’t spend on resettling Blight refugees. Petty childishness was so much less fun when you had to think about the consequences for others.

Eventually, the servants finished their work and Aly escaped. It was late, but she went back to her rooms and she got some useful things done that day: reports about rebuilding the city, supplies for refugees, the planned Warden fortress in Amaranthine, and so on. She was still at her writing desk when the door clicked open. A pair of brawny arms draped over her shoulders, and she looked up with a grin at dancing brown eyes she loved very much.

“So I heard a rumor,” Alistair said with a grin, “That a gorgeous woman is getting married to some hapless idiot next week.”

Aly grinned back. “That can't be true. I heard she was marrying a handsome prince.” They kissed, slow and unhurried, enjoying the quiet peace of the moment, like a stroll in a familiar and favorite garden.

They broke apart, and Alistair glanced down at her writing desk. “Ooh, grain imports. Exciting! And here I thought queening was all balls and gowns and waving at people from carriages.”

He meant it as joke for her to share. Aly knew that. But she thought of the gown Mother Bronwyn had bullied her into, and her good mood soured. “Maker forbid we have a queen who can do something useful with her life,” she muttered, with considerably more bitterness than she'd intended.

“Your latest joust with the old dragon didn't go well I take it? I heard something about dress-fittings.”

Aly scowled. “It’s not just the dress, although that was impressively awful. It feels like Bronwyn and her minions are using this whole wedding to try to force me into a proper-lady-shaped box, even if she has to hack off bits of me to make me fit. Like now that we're supposedly at peace, I should hang up my dagger and lock pick and retire to hearth and home like that's all I'm good for.”

Alistair drew back. “Aly… Dear… If you want to— I know this life wasn't your first choice, so if you don't—” He laughed at his own stumbling. “Maker, words just do not seem to like me tonight, do they?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What I'm trying to say is—”

Aly was on her feet with her finger on his lips. “Don't. I chose this, remember?”

“If you say so.” Alistair chuckled. “You know, you might not need to worry. The ceremonial armor that Eamon commissioned for me is so shiny I think it will blind the whole audience. Then no one will be able to see the hideous marshmallow dress of doom.”

Aly grinned. “Perhaps I could arrange for someone to dump muck on us.”

Alistair chuckled. “Tempting. But Mother Bronwyn would probably murder us. And we'd never get to sample the stinky cheese platter at the reception.”

“We can't have that.” Impulsively, Aly pulled him in for another kiss. When they separated, she grinned ruefully. “You know, I am a little envious. You at least get to wear actual armor, even if it's silly shiny armor. Women don't get—” She stopped abruptly.

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Women don't get…?”

She looked up at him, a manic delight in her eyes that usually indicated his life was about to get _especially_ interesting. “I just had the _best_ idea.”

* * *

It was somewhere around the tenth knock before the door finally opened. “Can't you see the sign? We're _closed—_ ” Herren’s irritable voice cut off abruptly when he saw Aly standing there, hooded and cloaked, fist still raised mid-knock. Herren scowled. If looks could kill, Aly would be a bloody smear on the pavement right now. “You're not welcome here,” he snapped. Only Aly’s quickly inserted foot kept him from slamming the door in her face.

“I have have a deal for you,” Aly said.

“We're not making any more free armor, now _go awa—_ ”

“Herren, dear, what are you still doing up? Come to bed, it's far too cold tonight.” Aly heard Wade— it could only be Wade— yawning from somewhere in the shop.

“I will as soon as this pest leaves.” Herren tried to shove her foot out the door, but Aly braced her hands between the door and door frame. Wade’s face appeared over Herren’s in the doorway and brightened.

“Why, if it isn't my favorite customer! Don't be rude Herren, let her in.” The door was flung open and Aly was pulled in with much fussing from Wade and much growling from Herren. When they were all seated at the counter, Aly made her offer.

“I need something… special made, and in a hurry.”

Wade’s face brightened. “Have you brought me more dragon scale? Herren keeps me quite bereft of truly masterful projects.”

Herren snorted. “I keep us in profit, I think is what you meant. I don't care if you brought us hide from the archdemon itself, we're not making you any more free armor.”

Wade’s eyes glittered with speculative excitement. “Archdemon hide… Just imagine the properties!” Aly could imagine, and did. The archdemon corpse hadn't decomposed after she killed it— not even maggots would go near it. It simply lay atop Fort Drakon, oozing its miasmatic evil for weeks until Wardens from Jader came to dispose of it. The thought of anyone trying to make _armor_ from it made her blanch. Only Wade would think it was exciting.

“Er, no,” Aly coughed. “I had a… Different sort of challenge in mind.” She looked at Herren, calculating. “The Grey Wardens officially confirmed me as Ferelden’s Commander of the Grey last month. We're setting up our new headquarters in Amaranthine in a few months, and we're going to need an armorer. Wade could be that armorer.”

Herren’s eyes narrowed. “In exchange for…?”

Aly slid a sheaf of parchment across the counter. “You make this by next week.”

* * *

As Aly emerged from the bridal dressing chamber, Fergus looked her up and down. The corners of his mouth twitched. “I feel like I should be surprised, but somehow, I'm not.”

Aly grinned and twirled. “What, you've never seen a wedding dress like this?”

Her brother's mouth twitched again. “Not quite like that one, no. You do realize that Bronwyn is going to murder you?”

Aly snorted a very un-queenly snort. “Please. I've faced dragons, and I've faced Mother. I can handle one bitchy Chantry mother.”

Fergus’ face softened into a smile. “You know they would be proud of you right now.”

Aly’s throat tightened. It should have been her father walking her down the aisle. It should have been her mother squabbling with her over dress fittings. A lot of things should have been that weren't.

After a moment, Fergus held out a handkerchief. Aly took it, used it, then handed it back. She took a few deep breaths, then held out her arm.

“Shall we?”

* * *

If one stood in the rafters of the Denerim Grand Cathedral, one might have been able to see the murmur spread through the hall like a wave as Aly and Fergus walked down the aisle. More specifically, the murmur spread as the attendees realized that their queen-to-be was not wearing a wedding dress.

She was wearing _armor._

In Aly’s defense, it was probably the prettiest armor a bride had worn to her own wedding in the history of… ever. A snow white leather armor tunic, with gold filigree and the Ferelden coat of arms embossed on the chest. Small versions of the Cousland twin vines and the Grey Warden twin griffons graced her left and right shoulders, respectively. A short, white waist-length cape hung over her back. A miniature rose tucked into her bun completed the ensemble. It wasn't _the_ rose, sadly. That beloved gift had crumbled to nothing under the hardships of travel months ago. Still, when she was being so heavily scrutinized, the rose felt like a little private signal, just for her and Alistair, like flaunting a love letter written in code.

The murmur reached the back of the room and bounced back like waves in a bucket. The crowd was scandalized, but it was a delighted sort of scandal. Aly’s reputation had spread during the Blight, and Ferelden could take pride in a queen who defied tradition, as long as she did it in style.

Mother Bronwyn, for her part, looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. But what could she do? If she made a scene over this now, she'd be the one to look bad. That was the key to winning with people like Bronwyn. You never argued, because they would argue back until the end of time and you'd never win. Better to forge ahead and not give them the chance.

By the time Aly reached the altar, Alistair was trying his best not to grin like a loon, without much success. He was the only one (besides Wade and Herren) who had known Aly's plan ahead of time, but this was the first time he'd actually seen her armor in person.

He took her hands as Mother Bronwyn began the time-worn ceremony. “Blessed Andraste, beloved of the Maker, we are gathered here today…”

She was halfway through the ritual words when Aly noticed a glint of metal somewhere in the rafters. A reflex that bypassed simple thought barreled her into Alistair just as the first arrow loosed, which is why it glanced off her shoulder instead of going through his neck.

“Vengeance for Loghain!” A man in the robes of a Chantry lay-brother charged the altar, two wicked looking daggers in each hand. Aly danced out of the way, but not before one dagger connected with her abdomen. Fortunately, Wade had done his work well, and the frantic jab slid uselessly off Aly's toughened leather armor. She drew her own boot daggers, vaguely aware of commotion throughout the chapel, and that Alistair had drawn his sword and was fighting someone behind her, but she was too focused on the current fight to note the details. Aly feinted left, then struck right, putting a nasty gash in his arm. The assassin grimaced in pain but didn't drop his weapon. Aly gave him points for that— She knew from experience how hard that was with a cut that deep.

They stood there for a moment, panting. Then the assassin struck out at her left. It was clearly a feint, so Aly moved right to block, but the assassin didn't. He went straight for Alistair. Alistair, who had his back to them, blades locked with another assassin. Alistair, who despite his shiny plate armor, had nothing to protect him from a throat cutting.

Aly swore as she scrambled to defend him, _too slow, too slow…_

A dagger _thunked_ into the assassin's back and he toppled to the ground. Leliana appeared a moment later, yanking the knife out and wiping the blade on her Chantry robes. She nodded at Aly. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Aly panted. She glanced over at Alistair, who'd finally managed to run his opponent through. He didn't seem to be hurt. “I owe you one.”

“What do we owe Leliana for this time?” Alistair asked, turning to join them.

Instead of answering, Aly pulled him into a bruising kiss. He grunted in surprise, but leaned into it eagerly as she sought reassurance with lips and hands. Eventually they pulled apart, panting. “You're in one piece?” she murmured.

He grinned weakly. “Of course. You?”

Aly tried to make a show of scoffing. “Takes more than that to take me down.” Her voice was shakier than she would have liked.

Throughout the hall, various royal guards and other well armed attendees were quickly subduing the other assassins that had appeared. There was even an elderly woman in Grand Cleric’s robes calmly pulling a dagger out of an assassin's back.

“Sodding nughumpers, is that it?” Oghren shouted. “This party was just getting fun! Where's the ale?”

Alistair chuckled. “Glad someone's enjoying this.”

“Your majesty, please.” That was Captain Easton of the royal guard, pulling on Alistair's shoulder. “This room is not secure. If you would please come away…?”

Alistair looked incredulous. “Leave? Now? I can't do that while people are hurt here!”

“Sire, we already have people—”

“His Majesty is right,” Leliana interrupted. Aly saw Alistair wince at the formal title coming from a close friend. “The assassins appear to all be dead. If the king left now, it would only start rumors that he was seriously injured or killed by this attack. It is vital that people see for themselves that this is not so. And if he is seen tending to the wounded, then it can only enhance his reputation.”

Aly didn't need to see Alistair's face to know that that he hated having a basic act of decency reframed in such cravenly political terms. But it worked. As Alistair went to find Wynne, Aly pulled Easton aside. “Have your men search the rafters. There was at least one man up there who's gone now, and I didn't see him fall—”

They all jumped as a body fell from the ceiling with a great thud. There was a very familiar looking dagger in its back. “My apologies, friend,” drawled Zevran from the rafters. “I should have anticipated something of this kind. The festivities have been making me lax.”

Aly flung out a hand to stop Easton’s lieutenant from putting a crossbow bolt in her friend. “Don't. He's on our side.” She looked up at Zevran. “If you get yourself killed pulling stunts like that, I'm never speaking to you again.”

He mock bowed. “So helpful. I wouldn't dream of offending you that way my friend.”

All in all, they were stupendously lucky. No one other than the assassins had died. There were some injuries, but none were life threatening. The worst hurt was Bronwyn, who had to be carried out by two guards, but Wynne assured them she'd recover.

When most of the chapel had cleared, Aly found Alistair in the back wiping down his sword. She pulled him into another fierce kiss. When they pulled apart Alistair had a twinkle in his eye. “You know, after all that trouble, we still didn't manage to actually get married?”

Aly blinked. “Fuck, you're right.”

“I know. Really inconsiderate of them. They could at least have waited until we'd said our ‘I do’s. Now we’ll have to do the whole thing over again.”

Aly made a face. “Oh _fuck_ that. Let's go find Leliana.”

It turned out that a mere lay sister like Leliana did not have the authority to perform weddings. But she procured an Orlesian Grand Cleric from somewhere (the same one who Aly had noticed earlier dueling assassins with daggers), while Alistair had Eamon gather up as many nobles as could still stand, and assembled them in the chapel.

It would probably go down as the most unconventional royal wedding in Ferelden’s history. The king and his queen-to-be standing at the altar, grinning like fools, armor looking much more well used than it had that morning. The Grand Cleric saying the ritual words, robes soaked in blood (“None of it is mine,” she had assured them.)

But it was their wedding. Aly and Alistair's. And that was all that mattered in the end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A totally a silly and self-indulgent idea I got. Also, bonus points to whoever can guess who Leliana's Grand Cleric is.


End file.
